


The Mountain Sang a Coronach

by Dayanara



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar, Homestuck, Sunless Sea
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2018-12-01 08:56:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11482971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dayanara/pseuds/Dayanara
Summary: Roxy and Rose step forwards, finally. Rose keeps her straight face until she is feet away from you, apparently immune to Jade bouncing up and down in place or your own broad grin. She goes to extend one slim-fingered hand and then barks out a sudden laugh, losing her mask, and reaches out to pull the two of you into a hug. You laugh as well and wrap your arms around both of them, lifting the two girls off the ground and making Jade yell.“John,” Rose says, “Jade.” Her voice is as carefully enunciated as you expected, if raspier.Roxy smiles at you, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and then extends one hand to Jake.“Mr English, Jade, John,” she says, and smiles wider, “welcome to London.”





	1. Your name is JOHN EGBERT

_Your name is **JOHN EGBERT**. You have a passion for **PENNY DREADFULS** of the **WORST VARIETY**. You enjoy tinkering with far-fetched and futuristic inventions but you are **NOT VERY GOOD AT IT**. You have a fondness for **PARANORMAL LORE** , and are an aspiring **AMATEUR MAGICIAN**. You also like to play **GAMES** sometimes._

 You blink and miss the last moment of direct sunlight on your face as the water sinks into the shadows cast by the first gate of the Cumaean Canal, taking your boat with it. The machinery groans and cranks and, for a moment, you're terribly afraid, and then you take a deep breath and remember that hundreds of ships pass this way each year and the gates never fail. You turn, look at your best friend standing beside you. She's grinning, eyes wide and delighted as she watches the workers turn the enormous handle that opens the lock.

 Gradually the water evens out and there's a shout from the wheel as you very slowly creep forward towards the second gate.

 “We're on our way,” Jade whispers, turning to look at her. Her cheeks are stained pink, lips bitten red raw, she's almost breathless with excitement. It's catching, your own smile starts to grow.

 “We're going to finally meet them,” you say, and an airy little laugh escapes before you can stop it, all fear forgotten. There's still blue sky above you but you're sailing down from Lake Avernus, already you can't claim to be on the surface any more. This is Neath territory now. Slowly, slowly, the iron behemoth that Jade's grandfather has charted inches forwards, until you pass through the gate and settle in to wait for the third to open. You watch as the blue sky slowly disappears, hidden above the ceiling of the cave you've entered.

 “Jade,” you say, very quietly, and she turns to look at you.

 “John?” she asks, voice falsely deep, mocking you, but she pauses when she sees that your smile has vanished again. “You're not about to tell me that you're claustrophobic, are you? Because that would be jolly unfortunate.”

 You're not, but your eyes took a moment to acclimatise to the darkness beneath the world. There is a fear in you that you have never spoken aloud. You've been writing to Dave and Rose for years, you both have, you can almost, almost hear their voices. You've seen pictures – crude drawings from Dave and eerie, almost anatomical sketches from Rose, one carefully posed photograph of the two of them with Rose's mother and Dave's older brother. You've shared everything with the two of them. You've never met them.

 “What if we don't get along?”

 Your voice is quiet, almost a whisper, but Jade hears. The railing around the prow of the boat is cold beneath your bare arms. You're wearing short sleeves because you've been walking through Naples in high summer, it had never occurred to you that it would be so cold when you left the sunlight behind you that would break out into goose pimples. The soft sound of water splashing echoes in the cave as the water beneath your boat sinks and you descend further towards the Neath, towards London.

 Jade bumps against your shoulder, laughing, warm and solid. “Of course we will, silly, they're basically family.”

 The lock-keeper of this gate is watching you. He's a strange-looking, pallid fellow, and your insides wriggle uncomfortably for the few seconds that your gazes are locked. He looks away as something heavy lands on your shoulder and you jump.

 “Hello, chaps,” Jade's grandfather, Jake English, says, slinging an arm around each of your shoulders and positioning himself between you, “spiffing, isn't it?”

 He's staring around at the workers milling around the edge of the lock, opening the gate, checking all kinds of gauges and levers that you don't even pretend to understand. He's a large man, easily a head taller than you, with an incredibly impressive moustache that almost obscures his expression of intense fascination. Jake has been around the world almost three times now, he's taken Jade with him on all kinds of zany adventures, but he's never ventured below the surface before. You know that he actively encouraged Jade's friendship with Rose and Dave. You know that he's spoken to Rose's mother, Roxy, although he's never let on how they met. When he organised this expedition and Jade asked if you could come along he was delighted. Three weeks in the world under the surface, the Neath, three weeks in Fallen London.

 “It's excellent,” Jade says, throwing her curtain of dark hair back over her shoulder and smiling up at him, all bright green eyes and big teeth. He laughs and pats her shoulder, then turns to you.

 “Er, yeah,” you say, voice tight as you pass through the fourth gate. It is taking much, much less time than you had anticipated. There are only seven gates in total and then you'll be floating on the zee, deeper and darker and blacker than anything you've ever seen. You try to focus on the things you've heard from Dave, all bright jokes, and not from Rose who's a little morbid and tends to assume that you share her fascination with anything slimy and unpleasant. “Yeah, it's good.”

 There's another worker staring at you. His eyes are red. You swallow and blink and when you open your eyes again after the fraction of a second that they were closed he's gone. There's a disturbance in the water at the edge of the canal. Did he fall in? Did he jump? You almost raise the alarm, but then you see him again. He's standing a hundred feet away staring in the opposite direction. You try to swallow again but your mouth's dry. Where's your father? He's on the boat somewhere but you haven't seen him in a few hours.

 Jake grins wider and pats you, too, then turns back to the sailors on the deck and starts issuing orders that they mostly ignore. He's already demanded that they refer to him as “Captain English” despite the fact that the actual captain of the ship is a rather reedy man in his late forties who doesn't seem to be able to move his face at all, which makes it difficult to tell whether he objects to it or not. Either way, most of the sailors aren't paying any attention to him. You don't blame them. He exudes an intense air of excitement but he's bandying about a lot of ship-related words and you're not entirely certain that he's using them right.

 Jade throws you a little half smile. “He's always like this,” she says softly, leaning in a little closer and adjusting her button-up skirt, “he'll calm down when we're there. He's gets dreadfully excited, you know. Great-aunt Jane thinks it's sweet, that's why she keeps bankrolling him.”

 The fourth gate opens. You're shivering hard now. If Jade notices she doesn't say anything, she's too busy staring wide-eyed at the workers on the docks. You're deeper in the earth now, and they're growing stranger. A man there has yellowing bandages covering the entirety of his torso and face, there a woman in trousers is bellowing orders in a voice that echoes like a tolling bell, there a young boy has something yellow and glittering growing from beneath his eyes. There are four statues standing silently beside the canal and you squint at them, wondering whether they've been offloaded from a trading vessel for some reason, before one of them suddenly moves and starts turning a crank. His joints creak as he moves. He doesn't seem to mind you staring. One of his fellows turns to look at you, you think, but his grey eyes are blank and it's difficult to tell. Jade whoops in glee when she sees them.

 “Oh, clay men, how wonderful!”

 “You've seen them before?” you ask, wondering, watching another one of the statues walk away from the others and start hauling boxes.

 “Well, no,” she says, “but I've read about them. Real living stone golems. Perfect workers. No food needed, no sleep.”

 The one that's looking at you opens his grey mouth. “We like it when it is quiet,” he says, in a voice that sounds like a rockfall formed into words. Jade claps her hand over her mouth.

“Was he talking to us?” she whispers, and you shrug again, thoroughly unnerved.

 The fifth gate opens and you chug through. The people working here look rather neater than the ones higher up, there's an Admiralty presence all standing around wearing stiff blue uniforms. Jake reappears and cheerfully salutes. One young woman replies in kind, smiling as he grins jovially across, still looking around in fascination, and her fellows roll their eyes.

The sixth gate opens. The lights here aren't electric lights and they aren't flame, they're some kind of glowing rock that casts something akin to moonlight across the whole area, blue-tinted and eerie. Jade reaches across and takes your hand. There's an odd smell, like a room gone to mould when no-one was caring for it, and it makes you wrinkle your nose and fight off a sneeze.

The seventh gate opens. There's a shout from the foredeck, a babble of voices from beyond, and the ship sails forwards out of the lock and into the zee, towards the docks. There are several men in Admiralty uniforms directing you with waving lights towards one of the docks and you drift in slowly and carefully. The captain strides forwards as the ramp is lowered, followed by Jake, who waves across you and Jade. There's a party waiting for you on the dock.

 “Captain Erik Donn?” The woman in the neatest uniform asks, checking the clipboard she's gripping.

 “That's right,” the captain says, passing across a handful of paperwork that she shuffles through quickly and efficiently.

 “Right, that's all in order,” she says, making a mark on her clipboard, “we'll need to do a quick look in the cargo hold, just to make certain, I'm sure you understand.”

 Before he can reply two of her men have strode past your group and up the gangplank. The captain does not look concerned.

 “Seventeen passengers bound for London, correct?” she asks, and he nods his head.

 “All with correct passports,” he says, “they were checked before we entered the first lock.”

 She nods. “Yes, that's all fine.”

 Jake is peering around past her, squinting into the half-dark as she makes tidy notes on her clipboard. She notices.

 “Sir, are you alright?”

 He smiles, wide and bright. “Dear lady, I am smashing.”

 She eyes him for a long moment, comes to a conclusion that she keeps to herself, then goes back to writing on her clipboard.

 “Right, Captain Donn,” she says, as her two men reappear and nod to her, “that's all fine. London awaits.”

 He nods and takes the papers she hands back to him. She keeps some, tucks them into her clipboard and then looks up at Jake.

 “Enjoy your visit, sir,” she says, voice unreadable, face expressionless, and it gives you the shivers. There is a tidy line of stitches completely circling her wrist, it looks almost like her hand has been cut off and then tidily reattached. She smooths down her uniform, nods to you and Jade with a half-smile that doesn't reach her eyes, then turns sharply on her heel and strides away.

 You glance at Jade and then swallow. She, Jake, and you're certain you as well, stand out somewhat. There's a glow beneath her skin that the workers on the docks do not posses – they are pale and pasty, even the dark-skinned have a sort of grey porridgy look to them.

 “Ho!”

 A voice to you left is calling to you. Captain Donn turns and then raises a hand in greeting. Another ship is docked beside yours, smaller and sleeker than the iron monster you rode down the canal in. The woman who called out is skipping down the gangplank towards you, hand extended.

“Donn,” she says when she reaches you, and Captain Donn nods.

 “Flins,” he says, equally shortly, and they shake hands. She is as sun-browned as you are, and looks just as incongruous in this drab place, “news?”

 She nods, once. “Came from London. Caught sight of you just as we were about to head back up, in fact. Fog's very thick up to the docks. Unusual amount of neddy-men.” She leans in a little closer, licks her lips, shoots a nervous glance at the three of you who are all listening in with as little subtlety as any of you ever possess. “Alternian ship pulled in to trade.”

 Captain Donn's eyebrows twitch slightly at the same moment that Jade gasps and then claps a hand across her mouth. The captains don't hear it over the noise from the docks, which seems to be growing louder and more hectic the longer you stand here. The mould smell is getting stronger too, you think it might be coming from a stack of crates piled high over by a door marked “Customs Office”. One of them is leaking a suspicious blue-grey fluid onto the cobbles, although upon closer inspection the blue could just come from the glittering shard-lights set into the walls.

 Jade is trying to catch your eye but you've just caught sight of a man with tentacles instead of limbs or a face stuffed haphazardly into a three-piece suit and top hat, and you doubt that anything she could have to say would be more interesting than watching him head slowly and uncomfortably sinuously to one of the smaller ships docked and head up the gangplank. No-one else watches him – or her, you suppose, or neither – or even looks in his direction.

 Jade's grabbing at your arm now, biting her lip with excitement, and she pulls you a few steps backwards as Jake finally loses his self-control and steps around the captains to get a better look at the dockyard.

 “Did you hear that?” she asks, and you shrug half-heartedly. One of the crates by the customs office has just got up and walked away.

 “A troll ship,” she says wonderingly, “in London. I thought they hated Londoners.”

 “Yes,” you say with what you hope is an air of certainty. You have no idea what she's talking about. She is still almost bouncing on the balls of her feet when you're finally ushered back aboard and the two of you are left hanging over the railing looking out at the zee as you leave behind the cool blue lights of the Canal and are left with nothing but the prow-light to light they way.

 The journey from the dockyard at the Cumaean Canal to Wolfstack Docks, to London, is only a few hours long. Your eyes are growing accustomed to the dark, you can see glittering flecks in what must be the roof of the cavern now, almost like stars. The water rolling in waves beneath the ship is black as pitch, glittering green where the prow-light hits it. Occasionally you see something slimy floating on the surface and on each occasion Jade grabs your arm, points, makes certain that you haven't missed the patch of seaweed or driftwood or something unnameable floating along beside the boat. When you finally pull into London you've grown thoroughly sick of it, you're cold and miserable and you're already longing for a good hot day and some decent sun.

 Captain Flins wasn't lying. The fogs around London are so thick that you feel like you could reach out and pull a handful down out of the air like candyfloss. It is freezing now, your shirt wet and sticking to you from a mixture of water from the air and sea-spray, but as soon as you catch the first glitter of light in the distance you stop caring. More wink into existence as you approach the docks, a mixture of the strange blue, glittering stones that lit the docks at the canal and warmer yellow gas-light. Soon you grow close enough that you can see the dark humps of buildings clustered together on the land ahead. Jade's knuckles are white on the railing, she's leaning forwards so far that you're afraid she's going to fall into the water.

 You hear voices, now, shouting and hollering on the shore. Urchin children scrabble around the legs of the dockworkers, the dockworkers clamour and shove past one another, overseers shout and give incomprehensible directions. A tentacled monstrosity like the one you saw at the Cumaean Canal is slumped up against a wall, dressed in rags instead of a suit, a hat clutched in its slimy grasp.

 Two figures are standing at the edge of the docks, pale as porcelain, unmolested by the crowd which seems to be giving them a wide berth.

 Rose is just as beautiful as she was in her pictures, her face is bleached white and tinted moonlight blue in the prow-light as it shines on the docks. She's wrapped in a fur coat, platinum blonde hair falling to her shoulders just so, carefully arranged with a headband keeping it back off of her face. She's the picture of her mother, standing beside her, equally fair, dressed in a white coat with buttons down the front. They are both smiling, Roxy – Ms. Lalonde – is beaming, wide and bright, and as you watch she raises a hand and waves serenely at you. A corner of Rose's mouth is tilted up in a smirk, but it broadens when you catch her eye. Jade, beside you, begins to wave enthusiastically.

 “Oh, John, isn't it marvellous,” she says, grabbing her arm with both of her hands and bouncing on the balls of her feet, “we're really here, they're really here.”

 You strain your eyes staring into the crowd but there's no sign of Dave or his brother. Disappointment flares in your gut, and something else... Offense? You had thought he would be here to welcome you.

 Jake is behind you again, a hand on your shoulder, positively thrumming with excitement. He's smoking a pipe but you don't notice until you look directly at him – the smoke melted into the fog seamlessly and the smell can't overcome the sweat-and-rotten-fish smell that's getting stronger the closer you get to the docks.

 The ship comes to a halt. The gangplank slides down. The crew begins to disembark. You are politely escorted down, your luggage is brought out and left beside you on the docks.

 Roxy and Rose step forwards, finally, finally. Rose keeps her straight face until she is feet away from you, apparently immune to Jade bouncing up and down in place or your own broad grin. She goes to extend one slim-fingered hand and then barks out a sudden laugh, losing her mask, and reaches out to pull the two of you into a hug. You laugh as well and wrap your arms around both of them, lifting the two girls off the ground and making Jade yell.

 “John,” Rose says, “Jade.” Her voice is as carefully enunciated as you expected, if raspier.

 Roxy smiles at you, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and then extends one hand to Jake.

 “Mr English, Jade, John,” she says, and smiles wider, “welcome to London.”


	2. Your name is ROSE LALONDE

_Your name is **ROSE LALONDE**. You have a variety of **INTERESTS**. You have a passion for **RATHER OBSCURE LITERATURE**. You enjoy creative writing and are **SOMEWHAT SECRETIVE ABOUT IT**. You have a fondness for the **BESTIALLY STRANGE AND FICTITIOUS** , and sometimes dabble in **PSYCHOANALYSIS**. You also like to **KNIT**. And on occasion, if just the right one strikes your fancy, you like to play **GAMES** with your friends._

John looks as though he is several minutes away from freezing to death. You almost feel bad for him, you think, swaddling yourself tighter in the fur coat that you're wearing, but he really should have known better that to come to London in nothing but a shirt. Jade's wrapped more securely in a heavily starched floor-length skirt and a travelling coat, and Mr. English is wearing full explorer's paraphernalia. All of them are sunlight-glowing. They're dark-skinned, cheeks full and red-tinted, eyes green and blue and glittering. You suck in your own hollow cheeks and turn away, stepping back from Jade and John and glancing over your shoulder at the docks. Dave is late.

“Oh, I can barely believe it!” Jade is gripping at your hands, pulling you back around to face her. Her palms are warm and dry. You hoist your smile back on. Dave wouldn't have missed this for the world, as much as he pretends he doesn't care.

“This is wonderful, darlings,” says your mother, turning away from Jake English and bending down a little to kiss Jade and then John on their cheeks. She's tall, your mother; tall, thin, and beautiful. She's left a smear of lipstick on Mr. English's cheek, but he doesn't seem to have noticed.

“Yes, marvellous, marvellous,” Jake English says, and your mother's smile grows slightly broader, “now, I tried to book a few rooms in a stay house but I had some trouble with the mail system-”

“Oh, don't be ridiculous,” your mother replies, rearranging her scarf and her gloves, pulling herself up even straighter, and turning towards the road beyond the docks. She raises one slim-fingered hand into the air and clicks her fingers and a number of grubby urchin boys appear as if from thin air and stand to attention. “You'll be staying with us, dears, it's no trouble. You boys, summon a hansom and take the luggage to the road.”

Two of them start picking up trunks and carry-cases but the third is watching your mother with his eyes narrowed. He tilts his head to one side, weighing up his options, but before he can decide whether he's got the nerve to be cheeky your mother bends down and whispers something into his ear. Her gloves are white silk but she places one on his muddy shoulder as she speaks and when she pulls back it's still clean. His face has paled a little. One of her cat-whispered secrets, no doubt, for an urchin who'll only work for more than a penny. He hesitates for a moment, but payment's been made now whether he liked it or not, and he scrapes a nervous little bow before grabbing a box and hurrying after his friends. Jade and John watch this happen with an air of slight bemusement.

Jake isn't looking, he's squinting across at another ship pulling into the docks, eyes unused to the dark, and he starts a little as your mother takes Jade by the arm and starts to lead her away, motioning for you to follow.

“How was your trip, darlings?” she asks, eyes on Jade and John. Both immediately start babbling, absolutely charmed.

“Oh, it was wonderful-”

“I've never been to Italy before-”

“The Canal was so fascinating to see in action-”

“Does it ever get any warmer, do you know-”

“I've already seen so much I want to make notes on-”

You turn your head a little to survey Jade's grandfather as you reach the road and the hansom cab waiting there, driver tapping his fingers against the seat impatiently. Jake's hanging back a little, eyes wide with something that might be boyish wonder and might be fear, it's difficult to tell with surfacers. Sometimes it's the same thing.

“Mr English,” you begin, but he cuts across you.

“Oh, no need for that, Rose, dear, just call me Jake.”

You force on a pinched little smile at the unexpected familiarity. You've never spoken with Jake English before and you're starting to wish that you'd made the effort. Your mother is keeping your friends well entertained as she helps them into the cab and Jake is still lingering some feet back, staring longingly at the docks.

“Mr English,” you prompt, then catch yourself, “Jake, the hansom.”

He looks past you and startles back to life, strange melancholy immediately disappearing beneath charm and bluster. He pats you on the shoulder as he climbs the two steps into the dark interior, turning his head to look out of the window on the other side. The urchins have deposited the bags at the driver's feet and he stands and hauls them onto the top. You peer around the back of the cab, into the darker alleys.

“Rose?” Your mother pokes her head out of the vehicle. “Do hurry, dear.”

Does she know something that you don't? Dave should be here, his brother should be here, but Dirk and your mother have a bond that they don't often speak of and that you don't understand. Perhaps something has happened. If Dave was in trouble she would be worried, surely. Besides, it's been a while since Dave's been in danger of winding up in the tomb-colonies. Some quick stitches and a few sips of wine are often enough to cure whatever scrapes he collects.

He's almost your brother, though, and you take one last, quick glance out into the dark between the warehouses before you take your mother's dainty hand and climb up into the cab yourself, sitting back on the cracked red leather with your side pressed against Jade's.

“You must tell us where you want to visit first,” your mother says, drawing everyone's attention but yours, “of course we must take you to Veilgarden, the society there is wonderful. I suppose you'll want to visit the Carnival, of course, everybody does, and the University, I would imagine, with your interests...”

She carries on, voice clear as mirror-glass as the dim light of the street lamps flashes across her face. The fog from the docks is blowing further inland now, heavy and cold. It smells, very faintly, of thunder, and for a moment you're concerned that a storm has fallen from the ceiling and found itself stranded and helpless. You blink the notion away.

Jade has asked a question you didn't hear, but your mother is talking about the prevalence of clay men in the city. She does not mention the Warrens, you notice, the Loamsprach-speaking slums that wind beneath the city streets. She does not mention the Unfinished. You see a rubbery man begging from the gutter out of the corner of your eye, try to make quick eye contact with him, but you have turned a corner and he doesn't even look up from his own legs. Or, leg-like appendages, you suppose. You think about the piece of paper tightly folded in the inner pocket of your coat, pressed hard against your ribcage by your primly folded arms. Not yet.

You catch a flash of white hair on the street ahead and sit straighter in your seat, only vaguely aware that John is now chattering at you. Not Dave, you think, but perhaps the older Strider. Gone, anyway, lost in the crowd. You're approaching the market. The air smells more like coal smoke and less like fish guts and tanning leather. John is looking at you.

“I'm sorry, John,” you said primly, “I didn't hear what you said.”

He looks faintly put out, so you hoist your most appealing smile onto your face and reach out to wrap his cold hands in your own gloved ones.

“I was wondering where my father got to,” he said, “he didn't get off the boat with us.”

“Ah, he'll be alright,” Mr English, Jake, says, grinning, “Captain Dunn will send him our way.”

John still doesn't look convinced, but minor questioning at the docks will get his father where he needs to go. Everyone knows who your mother is, everyone knows where you live. Your real home is much further north, the manor and mad scientist laboratory on the very edges of the Prickfinger Wastes, only a misstep away from the glittering, razor-sharp stones to the north of London. That isn't where you're going, though, your mother has a town house only a short distance from the Bazaar. You have never asked her how she obtained the deed. You don't think that you ever will.

John is still making uncomfortable eye contact with you as you make your slow way through the roads that run around the Bazaar. Jade is staring gleefully out at the alien delights on show, but John is worrying delicately at his bottom lip, staring directly at you.

“Is something wrong, John?”

He blinks and startles, almost as though he hadn't realised that he had been doing it. “Ah, I was...” He breaks, looks out of the window instead, and his face contorts in confusion as he glimpses something out of the ordinary. You turn to look but whatever it was it's gone in the crowd. “I was just wondering where Dave is?”

His voice is all curled up in the question and with a pang you realise that there's hurt in it. You sit up a little straighter in the hard seat and smooth your skirt down, carefully inspecting the flawless white leather of your gloves – smaller than your mother's but identical in every other aspect.

“I'm...” you start, and try to shoot your mother a plea for help. She is not looking at you, she is still expositing delightfully for Jade and her grandfather, who remain enchanted. “I'm not sure,” you say after a moment, looking at John's left shoulder. “He was supposed to meet us at the docks with his brother. He must have been held up.”

You have never thought of John as particularly intelligent – certainly, very little of your communication has ever given you that impression – but he is peering at you narrowly in a way that you came thoroughly unprepared for. For a fraction of a moment you feel as though you're talking to Strider, that brief uncomfortable _knowing_ that the man in front of you knows exactly what you're thinking and is going to use it against you later, before John's mouth twists and his eyes lose all their sharpness and he looks at the street instead.

You breathe out and try not to think about Dave as your townhouse comes into view, a narrow terraced building, and then your breath catches again as the tall, pale man leaning nonchalantly behind the pillar by the doorway comes into view. Dirk's arms are crossed, face expressionless as he watches your carriage pull up. There's muck on the hem of his shirt, he tucks the dirty edge into his trousers as your mother leans her head out of the window. You get this impression, though, that he had been looking at you. He is alone.

He steps forwards and opens the carriage door like he's a footman, not an infamous thug and swordsman, and graciously extends a hand to help your mother disembark. She places her white glove in his scarred, calloused hand, and as soon as she's stepped down onto the cobblestone he reaches for you. You stare at him for what feels like a very long time but is actually only a moment, trying to get some kind of read off of him. He is as inscrutable as ever, face expressionless except for what might have been a very, very faint smirk. His glasses glint in the lamplight like the flames are in his eyes and it sends a shiver down your spine, but you think you do an admirable job of hiding it. With only the slightest hesitation you delicately place your hand in his palm and let him help you down.

Dirk offers the same assistance to Jade, then the smirk grows fractionally and his head falls into an almost imperceptible tilt as he extends his hand, palm up, for John, who stares at him in open bafflement. It rapidly turns into concern, and then discomfort. Dirk is still as surface stone, eyes burning, barely breathing. John looks over his shoulder at you and you rapidly look away, smoothing down your skirt again. Better for him just to do it and get it over with.

He does, looking more than a little put out as he slowly, unhappily, places his hand in Dirk's and Dirk helps him down with a sarcastic little bow. This is something that you've watched play out dozens of times, now, and something that your mother pretends not to notice: Dirk likes to put people off balance around him, he likes to make people uncomfortable.

He turns back to the door of the carriage and raises his hand again, and is immediately knocked out of the way as Jade's grandfather bounces jovially down the little steps at the carriage door.

“Sorry, old chap,” he blusters, clapping Dirk on the back and then brushing some imaginary dirt off of the older Strider's shoulder. Dirk is still standing with one hand extended as though he hasn't quite realised what's happened yet. His glasses have been knocked slightly askew. You are suddenly much, much more warmly disposed to Jake English. Dirk discombobulated is one of your favourite sights, and you see it so very rarely.

Your mother is standing at the doorway, looking backwards over her shoulder with her own faint smirk in place.

“Come along, darlings, you must be hungry. I imagine you want to wash up, too, after a trip like that. Don't worry about the bags, Dirk will handle it.”

Dirk's jaw tightens a fraction of a inch and there is a second of intense, silent communication between him and your mother, before he smiles and sweeps a theatrical bow, turning to help the carriage driver with the trunk and the bags. Your mother smiles thinly and steps over the threshold after your friends, her leather boots sinking into plush, red carpet.

 


	3. Your name is DAVE STRIDER

_Your name is **DAVE STRIDER**. You have a penchant for spinning out **UNBELIEVABLY ILL JAMS** with your **TURNTABLES AND MIXING GEAR**. You like to rave about **MUSICIANS NO ONE'S EVER HEARD OF BUT YOU**. You collect **WEIRD DEAD THINGS PRESERVED IN VARIOUS WAYS**. You are an **AMATEUR PHOTOGRAPHER** and operate your own **MAKESHIFT DARKROOM**. You maintain a number of **IRONICALLY HUMOROUS PUBLICATIONS**. And if the inspiration strikes, you won't hesitate to drop some **PHAT RHYMES** on a mofo and **REPRESENT**._

You duck into an alleyway between two leaning shacks and desperately catch your breath, pressing your hand against the bleeding rent in your stomach. It's a souvenir from a strife with your bro a couple of days ago and normally it wouldn't inconvenience you too much, but you've ripped your stitches and torn the wound open again and it's leaving a sticky red trail from the street to your temporary hiding place, as well as thoroughly ruining your previously suave outfit.

You glance out into the street - nothing there yet - and you shrug off your jacket, roll it up, and press down against the wound. You're already colder than usual and you're turning lightheaded. How much blood have you lost? The very last thing that you need is to expire in a dingy alleyway with mysterious pursuers desperate on turning your insides into your outsides and no-one to nurse you back to health when your miserable corpse inevitably stands up and starts walking around again.

To add insult to injury you've lost your sword. It's not a great loss, Dirk has over a hundred, but you would feel a lot better if you were holding it right now.

A shout sounds out in the street and you suck your breath in through your teeth, pressing further back against the wall, and try to sink back into the darkness, desperately will yourself invisible.

"Where's he gone?"

You wince, sidestep down closer to the dead end of this clearly poorly chosen escape route, check your stomach. It's still weeping blood but it's slowed significantly and it's starting to feel tight in the way that means it's scabbing closed again. Grimly, you put your jacket back on, leaning back against the wall in a way that looks cool and nonchalant and definitely isn't because you're starting to struggle to stay upright. Striders don't faint in alleyways. There is a broken brick behind you that's scratching at you even through your shirt and jacket and you shift a little, then huff a completely unpanicked breath when your knees threaten to go.

This is not how you thought you would end up being shipped off to the tomb colonies. You pause that thought - from what you've seen of your new friends so far they might not be willing to leave you in peices big enough to bandage back together.

A dark figure looms at the entrance of the alleyway. You will her not to see you, press closer against the wall. It's dark here, the light from the street beyond is already dim and you're shrouded in shadow.

"Hello, pretty," she says, and you curse your stupid complexion. She's holding a long, long knife and she raises it to point at you. You reach one of your hands up behind you and stumble a little, feeling at the wall for the jagged edge prodding you in the back. It's loose, half the brick comes away in your hand and now at least you're not completely unarmed.

"Hey, babe," you reply, and you're pretty pleased when your voice doesn't shake. She's maybe in her forties, broader than you across the shoulder and the hips, maybe a few inches taller. Normally you would definitely be faster than her and your first plan is to dodge under her outstretched arms, dance past the knife and out into the street. The only problem with the plan is that you're not sure you can walk properly, let alone run, and there are others out there. She hasn't shouted for them, though. What does that make you, then, a glory kill? Maybe there's a price on your head and she wants it all for herself. Maybe she just doesn't think that a skinny, half dead sixteen year old with no real weapon is enough of a problem to need back up for.

As much as it pains you to admit it, she might be right. There are a lot of examples in your past of adults underestimating you and ending up regretting it, but you wrap your fingers a little tighter around your brick and suddenly you remember that to some people you really are just a dumb kid who likes to get in over his head.

What rankles most about the whole thing is that you're pretty sure you've missed the boat arriving.

She takes another step forward, tilts her head to one side to assess you. Thoughtful, that's unfortunate. No wild swings to dodge under.

The last time you heard the clock chime you had an hour to get to the docks. That was almost certainly more than an hour ago, and instead of standing watching a boat pull in and waving at your lifelong pals for the first time, getting ready to show them around your horrible city, you're about to be gutted in an alleyway by some thug who hasn't even had the decency to explain why. The thought makes you grit your teeth and, to your surprise, it turns out that you do have some adrenaline left after all.

She reaches out to slam you back against the wall, raising her knife, but her hand smashes against brick instead as you manage one flash step a foot to the side. You stagger and bite your tongue but you don't fall, raising your brick and bringing it down with as much force as you can muster.

"You little shit!"

She's quicker than you gave her credit for, your brick cracks down on her shoulder instead of the back of her skull and she jabs at you with the knife. You wheel backwards and the knife tears the fabric of your jacket, goes straight through your shirt to split your skin. It's a white line of pain but it's not got anything on what you've got going on in the stomach region already so you ignore it and ram into her, putting all of your weight into shoving her back and trying to grab for the arm weilding the knife. She's also stronger than you gave her credit for and she doesn't even wobble, snorting as you grab for her wrist. Pissed off by your failure, you sink your teeth into her shoulder and this time she shrieks, shoves you back and comes at you with the knife again, swinging down to plunge the blade into the spot where your shoulder meets your neck.

There's blood in your mouth and you manage to dodge and block, her knife runs down your arm instead, scraping across your jacket. Your vision is going blurry. You step and step again, shove her in the ribcage, and suddenly the way out of the alleyway is clear. You take a chance and run, covered in blood and trembling like something newborn. She's still faster, grabs for the back of your jacket but you don't need it, you shrug it off and bolt out onto the uneven cobbles of the street. You're breathing so heavily and your heart is thundering so loud that you almost don't hear the shout behind you.

"He's here!"

You try to dodge and weave but it makes your head spin so you just go straight instead, stumbling a little over protruding cobbles and desperately trying to ignore the pounding footfalls behind you from more than one pair of feet. If you can keep going a little longer you'll be in the Forgotten Quarter and they might not follow you there, into the ruins. There are no gaslamps here any more, all the light comes from the glimmering false stars and the occassional glim light set into the side of some poor person's home. There, up ahead, the tall, crumbling wall that might save you.

A hand grabs for the back of your shirt and the two of you go down in a heap. You slam into the hard ground and can't stop yourself from shouting as your ribs, your hips, your thighs all get badly bruised by the uneven stones. Something blinding hot slides between your ribs and you realise with a sort of dull horror that it's that long knife, she's stabbed you in the back. The wound hurts significantly more when she yanks the blade free of you with a noise that might be enough to make you sick if you had enough energy left to heave, it leaves a hole straight through you where no hole is supposed to be. You can't think of anything clever to say as your vision goes blank at the edges, there's nothing left but pain and shame - Dirk is going to be so disappointed in you when he finds out.

There are more figures crowding around you now, three of them in total, you can't make their faces out in the gloom, you can't do much of anything. You try to push yourself up onto your elbows but you might actually have run out of blood completely and you can't move at all, you're lying on the ground like something dead. You might actually _be_ dead, it might be time for a pile of bandages and a one-way ticket. She raises her knife again, the wicked edge of it glints as brightly as her bared teeth do as light flares up behind you. Your three assaillants - all broad and heavily muscled, dockside scum for hire - all look up at the same time, squinting in the sudden glare, and all of their faces contort in horror as they see something outside your line of vision. There is something ice cold creeping up your spine, and it doesn't feel like corpse chill.

"This looks like a riotous motherfucking party," says a slow, uneven voice from somewhere you can't see and the woman with your blood on her hands takes one shaky step backwards.

"What the hell..."

A heavy footfall beside your ear and suddenly there's an extremely large person standing with one foot either side of your head. You can't do anything, you're skirting the edge of dead and from the feel of it you're going to need to stay almost dead for quite a while before you'll be up and about and being awesome again. The person above you is weilding something that isn't a blade in his right hand and holding a lamp in his left, the flame casting long, shifting shadows across the street. You manage to suck in one shallow breath but your heart is going so slowly it's almost stopped and you're on the verge of losing consciousness.

"Seems like little brother on the floor down here might not be having such a bitchtits time, though," the slow voice continues, and he carries on walking slowy and calmly towards the other three, "weeping all that red everywhere like that."

There's something hypnotic about his voice, even going uneven and blurry at all your edges that voice cuts straight through and you hear every word. It feels like something icy and horrible is trying to claw its way out of you. This, right here, might be the most afraid you have ever been. You wish your brain wasn't still clinging so desperately to consciousness, you want to run and hide, you want to really die, not the false way that people do under the surface of the world. The woman who stabbed you is on her knees, clutching at her head, and your saviour is still advancing, still carrying that awful chill with him, and then he's raising his... pipe? Board? No, it's a juggling club, one like a jester would have at the Carnival. He swings down, there's a sick crunch, and she falls foward onto the cobbles with the top of her skull caved in. The other two are gone, vanished into the darkness.

He turns around, ignoring the corpse at his feet - she really will be going to the tomb colonies when she wakes up, half her head gone like that - and hitches up his trousers so that he can kneel down by your shoulder, the knees of his pinstripe trousers settling into the puddle of your blood that's oozing out between the cobblestones. The awful, inexplicable terror is gone and now you're just embarassed. You still can't move, when you try you just black out for a moment.

"You're still alive," he says, in his slow, deep voice, and you want to burst out laughing. He's enormous, at least six and a half feet tall and, more bafflingly, he's got horns. He's got face paint on, chalk white against skin that might be grey, it's hard to tell as he puts the light on the ground to prod at your face, and it's unsettlingly skull-like. Your own personal grim reaper, you think, and then you want to hit yourself as you sink closer to unconsciousness.

"Motherfucking miracle, brother," he carries on, and you black out.


End file.
